Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [93]
No, I decided, what primarily operated here was psychic pain. Exacerbated by the physical, I was sure, but deeply rooted in the years before I met him, before Julie died, even before he met her—the woman whose faith in him, he’d once told me, had kept him from destroying what little was left of his life. A week ago last Wednesday he’d reconnected with people from those nine lost years; the collision had released emotions that were eating at him in ways I couldn’t begin to imagine.
Would he finally share the secrets of those years? I hoped so, but somehow I doubted it.
There was a tap on the wall next to the curtained doorway. A slender woman with heavy Indian features entered, smiling shyly. She carried a basket filled with fruit and rolled tortillas that gave off a spicy smell; a clean bandage rode incongruously on top of a melon. In her other hand she held what looked to be a jug of home-brewed wine.
Hy said,“This is Sofia.” He spoke to her in Spanish, thanking her for the food, and she replied, motioning for him to sit down. As she knelt beside him and began unwrapping his bandage, he said, “Sofia cleaned my wound after I staggered in here early this morning. Put a poultice on it—leaves and God knows what. Evil-smelling, but it made my arm feel better. She’s been monitoring my temperature all day; it’s only a hair above normal.”
Sofia began swabbing the wound with liquid from a plastic bottle. Hy’s lips tightened and he looked away. After a moment he said, “What I’m telling you, McCone, is that physically I’m okay. The only thing wrong with me is that I feel like an asshole.”
Sofia seemed to understand that. Maybe by now the word “asshole” has—by virtue of their plenitude—achieved the status of an international password. She made soothing sounds, then smiled sympathetically at me. After all, when she was done here, she could leave; I, on the other hand, was stuck with him. Finally she departed, motioning at the basket and the jug and murmuring “Buenas nocbes.”
I asked, “Why do you feel like an asshole?”
“Long story.”
“I’m listening.”
“What say we eat first?”
I had to admit that the smell of the food was making me ravenous. We sat cross-legged facing each other and burrowed into the basket. The tortillas were wrapped around a fiery fish-and-vegetable mixture and fried. The melon dripped sweet juice. In contrast, the wine was raw and very, very dry. We ate with our fingers, wiping them on our jeans; we drank from a shared paper cup. When we’d eaten all the food, Hy poured another cupful of wine and we leaned against his carryall— shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, toes touching occasionally—and told our respective stories.
I went first, since he seemed to need more time. He listened thoughtfully, asking an occasional question, making an infrequent comment. Had I met Dan Kessell? What had I thought of Gage Renshaw? Renshaw hadn’t really meantit when he said he intended to kill him? He had? Well, son of a bitch!
When I got to the part about learning about the body on the mesa and thinking it was Hy who had been shot, he became very still, seemed to draw away from me, turn inward. After a moment he put his hand under my chin, tipped my face up so he could look into my eyes. “If I’d known, I’d have gotten in touch with you one way or another. You’ve got to believe that.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“Same reason you haven’t been in touch with your friends or family—too dangerous.”
I went on with my story, speaking more swiftly now. When I finished, Hy lapsed into another withdrawn silence. Finally he said,